


Longing

by scullymurphy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Remus Lupin, F/M, Mutual Pining, Professor Remus Lupin, Romance, Spring Fling 2020, This Whole Fic is a Mood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:07:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullymurphy/pseuds/scullymurphy
Summary: And there it was: a vibration she was finely attuned to. She knew then that if she stood up and went to him, he’d probably let her kiss him. Probably enthusiastically fuck her right on the pretty batik—or maybe up against the wall.Fleur swallowed, suddenly light-headed with desire. He took a half step toward her, and in that moment she also knew (with such certainty) what a terrible idea that would be.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Remus Lupin
Comments: 59
Kudos: 137
Collections: RPSF 2020: Summer Camp





	Longing

**Author's Note:**

> Well this was supposed to be a 1500 word or less drabble, but I fell so in love with these two that it got ... a little longer.  
> Welcome to Camp Pigwidgeon y'all!

"Excellent. I trust everyone is clearer on their duties and the rules now?" Percy Weasley's pale blue eyes swept the room.

Fleur looked out the window as the rest of the group made sounds of assent and started shuffling up from their seats.

"Ms. Delacour?" Weasley's voice intruded on an interesting daydream. She swung her gaze to his, ran the tip of her tongue back and forth over the sharp bottoms of her incisors. Waited. She was only four months younger than him, had gotten into a better law school and they both knew it.

"It's fine," he finally said, turning to his desk to gather his clipboard. She smirked at his back. In the pantheon of dick managers she'd had, he was actually ok.

"Oh," he said over his shoulder to the rest of the counselors, most of whom were almost out the door. "Can someone bring Mr. Lupin's check out to his cabin this afternoon?"

Fleur put up a quick finger. "I'll do it."

She felt Milicent's dark head turn toward her, but she didn't look.

*

She watched her scuffed Keds move over the dusty path. Walking in the woods here was almost exactly how she'd thought it would be. Green, cloying—utterly different from the dry gold of California. But today there was no sunlight filtering through the leaves. The sky looked heavy. Oliver had said something about rain.

She swung her arms, white envelope in one hand, and picked up her pace until her breaths were coming fast. It felt good to walk this way. Even if she would be sweaty and flushed when she got to his cabin. Maybe if she walked fast enough she'd distract herself from what she was doing.

What _was_ she doing? _Nothing smart._ She slapped at a mosquito and kept moving.

*

She'd realized about five seconds after she and Millie had rounded their group of 'Advanced Art' campers into his classroom that she wanted him.

He'd been writing something on a chalkboard— _who used a chalkboard at summer camp?_ — and the long line of his back, slim waist, dark hair curling over his collar...

Then he'd turned around.

Deep brown eyes, wry mouth (had she ever seen one in real life?), beard trimmed close to his face, a glint of a half smile, _beautiful_ hands.

She'd tried a couple of things on him. Nothing obvious—he was older and far from stupid. A casual stretch that lifted her breasts and revealed a strip of skin at her waist; a slow glance from under her lashes when he asked her a question. Things that usually worked. But it was clear pretty quickly that he wasn't biting. And that he might find her a touch… amusing?

He'd barely talked to her, other than a polite nice to meet you and some quick directions. A one or two word answer to a question. But there had been a current. Just not the kind she wanted.

Although he'd huddled up with Millicent for quite a while and Fleur had seen the flash of his white smile again, heard his laugh. Apparently they knew each other from the City.

"He's a professor at Pratt. That's where I go to school," Millie had said in response to the reluctant question Fleur put to her as they'd walked the campers back to Mess. "He's very popular." Something in her tone had made Fleur look up.

Millie had smiled, not unkindly. "There are bets each year. On how many girls will—I don't know—embarrass themselves, over him."

"Oh, so he's a dirtbag?"

"No, no. He doesn't encourage it. Probably why it keeps happening."

"Huh." Fleur had looked down, unhappy to be anywhere _near_ that cohort.

Millie had touched her arm briefly before walking ahead.

*

She kicked at a tree root embedded in the path. But she was different, wasn't she? Different from a bunch of desperate art school undergrads? For one thing she was really smart. Smarter than most. First in her class, early graduation, accepted to both Stanford and Yale law ( _take that, Weasley_ ), although she was deferring. And she cared about things, was a sharp observer, an appreciator of detail.

Not that people ever got to that.

No, they were stopped by the obvious thing. Caught there like disappointing flies in a sweet trap.

Although her looks _could_ be useful. Especially when she wanted something.

*

She crested a rise in the trail and came to a clearing with a cabin just as the first drops of rain began to fall. By the time she reached the tiny porch, she was soaked. The rain was like nothing she'd ever seen in California, like the clouds were trying to turn themselves inside out.

She banged on the door, peeked in a window, but could tell he wasn't there. The interior was dim and still.

She tried the knob and when it turned easily, let herself in—he wouldn't want her to stand outside in the rain.

She stood there dripping on the mat and scanned the space. It was pretty much as she'd expected. Small, but neat. A stocked bookshelf, a guitar on a stand in the corner, a pretty batik spread covering the bed.

A stack of canvases.

She moved toward them almost involuntarily, switching on a lamp as she went. He was teaching drawing to the campers, but Millie said he was a painter. Fleur liked paintings—especially oils, thickly applied. There had been a Cy Twombly exhibition at the Getty and she'd gone five times.

She pulled out the stack. Most were blank, but two weren't. She flipped them around, propped them against the wall and looked.

After a few minutes, the screen door creaked. She could hear him pause in the doorway.

"I brought you your check," she said, keeping her eyes on the pictures.

"And got caught in the storm. So did I."

She heard the smile in his voice and then she did turn. He was in tennis whites. And he was also soaked. _Jesus_. She bit her lip, but this time it wasn't calculated.

He passed her and went down the hall, then emerged with two towels. He tossed one to her and started wiping his neck and face.

"This isn't stopping anytime soon. Would you like something to drink?"

"Yeah, ok."

She wrapped the towel around her hair and squeezed the excess moisture, then ran it over her arms and legs. Her white camp shirt was a lost cause; soaked to transparency. And of course she never wore a bra. She smothered the sudden heat in her cheeks with the soft terry cloth.

"I have Coke? Iced tea?" He was looking in the fridge.

"A beer?" She was annoyed with herself almost the moment she said it. It was like two o'clock.

"Ok." That amusement again.

But when he came over, he had two beers. He handed her one bottle and gestured with his. "Have a seat."

"Thanks." She sat on the sofa under the pale circle cast by the lit lamp.

He dropped into a chair opposite her. "So what do you think?" he inclined his head toward the paintings. Like it wasn't weird at all: finding her in his house, helping herself to his art.

She took a long swallow of beer to give herself a second to think. It was actually good—icy cold in the heat. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I like them."

"What do you like about them?"

He was going to go professorial on her. Ok.

"They're both good. But this one," she pointed to the larger canvas, "is better. The composition is more interesting and the colors are almost at odds with the tone, but in a good way."

He nodded.

"But—" Fleur risked a quick glance at him. He was looking at her and not the paintings. She felt a little surge of something, either triumph or dread, she couldn't quite tell which. "I couldn't stop looking at the other one." She kept her eyes on his.

"Really?" He looked back at her for a long moment before breaking their little staring contest and standing up, the movement restless. "Even though this one is the better work?" He walked to the larger canvas.

"Yeah," Fleur fiddled with the condensation on her beer bottle. It was so fucking _humid_. "I like the emotion in that one."

"What emotion do you think it is?" She was looking down, but could tell he had turned to face her. He might even have moved closer.

"Longing."

The silence in the room stretched. She let her gaze travel slowly up from his toes to his face.

"Very good," he said softly. His eyes were dark and his lips a little bit parted.

And there it was: a vibration she was finely attuned to. She knew then that if she stood up and went to him, he'd probably let her kiss him. Probably enthusiastically fuck her right on the pretty batik—or maybe up against the wall.

Fleur swallowed, suddenly light-headed with desire. He took a half step toward her, and in that moment she also knew (with such certainty) what a terrible idea that would be. For her equilibrium. Her control.

 _Self-preservation_. Her brain whisper-screamed the words at her. A girl like her needed to be familiar with the concept.

She drained the last of her beer and plunked the bottle down on the nearest surface. "Thanks for the drink. Your check is on the counter." She got up and moved past him to the door before she could start thinking too much.

"But it's still pouring—" He reached out and his fingers brushed against her upper arm. They both looked at the point of contact, then Fleur flicked her gaze back up to his.

"I'll be fine."

And she would be, as long as she walked away _right now_.

His hand fell and she let the screen door bang shut.

*

The next Sunday she had a half day, so she caught a ride into town.

_Four blissful hours to herself._

(One thing she hadn't realized when she told Oliver she'd do this whole bizarre East Coast summer camp counselor thing with him, was that she'd never be alone for one second. It sucked.)

Predictably, she ended up at the bookstore. There were books, it was cool inside, there was a big, sweet cat. And if she ran into that know-it-all counselor with the frizzy hair, they could keep their distance.

She was sitting on a low stool in the poetry aisle, flipping through _Turtle Island_ and feeling homesick when she heard his voice.

"What are you reading?"

Fleur closed her eyes just briefly.

"Gary Snyder," she turned halfway and held up the cover of the book. He was leaning against the stacks, arms crossed, wearing some kind of denim shirt, sleeves rolled, a brown leather cuff on one wrist.

_Shit._

She had been avoiding him. _Self-preservation_. She'd even told Millie she had cramps and skipped their last class.

And she'd actually managed to avoid thinking about him too. Between the campers, counselor drama and 127 organized activities a day, it had been easier than she'd thought. Mostly.

But her plan only worked if he didn't pop up in bookstores looking like fucking _that._

"A classic." He shifted against the shelf and tilted his head. "It's so evocative of place. And you're from out west, right?"

"Southern California, yeah." She sighed internally and turned all the way toward him. His eyes were warm.

"So how did you end up here?" And now they were crinkling at the corners. _Shit_.

"My cousin Oliver. He's been coming here forever. He convinced me that it would be fun."

Her tone must have conveyed her real feelings because he laughed. "Sounds like you think you were lied to."

She couldn't help her smile. "Yeah, I guess so."

His face sobered as he looked at her. Suddenly he pushed off of the bookshelf. "Hey do you want to go get a burger?"

"A… burger?" Of couse she was suddenly fucking starving.

"Yeah there's a decent counter place at the end of the street."

"Ok," she said after a pause, a strange kind of resignation settling in at the base of her skull. She slotted the book back in the shelf.

"You're not going to get it?" he asked, holding out his hand to help her up.

"I already have it. What about you?" It would be better if she didn't touch him, but she slid her fingers into his warm palm anyway. "Aren't you getting anything?"

"No. I came in because I saw you." He glanced at the large window at the end of the aisle with a half smile.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

_*_

Actually it wasn't just a decent burger, it was really fucking good. Fleur had almost forgotten what actual food tasted like since she'd arrived at camp. She was sure they'd been serving the same red sauce and mystery meat rendered in different mediums for nearly every meal. Thank god for s'mores.

"So why law school?" he was asking, the sun slanting into his hair and waking highlights of gold and copper. Her fingers itched to run through it. She flexed them and looked down.

"I don't totally know." Fleur gave the honest answer for once. "I don't feel ready to be done with school and I'm uninterested in academia. No offense."

"None taken. It's a vicious shit show. Especially for women. I like teaching and I like that I can support myself enough to make art, but other than that…" He shook his head and looked away.

Fleur balled up her wrapper and shot it toward the trash can. "Exactly. Although I'm not sure law school will be any better."

He laughed. "Yeah, you're right."

"I'm going to France first, though," she said. "Before I start school. I'm deferring for a year."

"Oh? What are you going to do there?" He got up and dumped the rest of their trash.

"Stay with my grandmother in Paris. Get a job. Hope something interesting happens to me."

He gave her an enigmatic look, "Oh, I'm sure it will."

She crinkled her nose at him.

He paused, then shook his head once. "Want to walk back?"

"Sure."

*

They walked slowly and eventually stopped at the place where the path diverged between the camp and his cabin. The sun had sunk behind the dark line of trees, but it was still warm and the air was soft. The light was like nothing Fleur had ever seen.

"I meant to ask you," she pointed down his side of the path. "Why are you here—in the middle of the woods near a random summer camp?"

"Because I wished to live deliberately?" His eyebrow went up.

"You're too far from the pond for that. Sorry."

He really laughed. ( _God.)_ "My good friend Sirius owns this property. He invites me, so I come. Every summer for the last few years. I like the light for painting—and the quiet. I make enough money from teaching campers to pay for beer and the occasional burger. I always mean to get a lot of work done when I'm here."

"Yeah, I saw all those empty canvases." Fleur smiled up at him teasingly, but the memory of the paintings brought back the mood from the cabin, that mix of hot anticipation … and panic. Her smile faded.

The humor left his face too, but he kept his eyes on her. Stepped closer. She swallowed. _Shit._

"I don't want to say it because I'm sure everybody does," he said, his voice very quiet. He reached up and his fingers brushed lightly across her cheek. She couldn't help her head tilting ever so slightly into the caress.

"Then don't," she breathed.

A crease appeared between his eyes. "What do you want, Fleur?" he asked softly. _God,_ her name in his voice. He was so close to her now. She could see flecks of green in his brown irises.

She looked away. "I don't know." The warning surged through her again. If she took this step, she'd be _fucked_. "But I think I should go."

He immediately dropped his hand and stepped back. "Ok." He looked puzzled, but not angry. Disappointed … and maybe a little hurt? "I won't push."

"Can we be friends?" she blurted, suddenly bereft at the idea of spending the remaining weeks of camp without any of him at all.

"Of course." He rubbed the back of his neck and half-smiled. "Sure. Friends." He gave a little laugh and did that head shake.

"Good," she said. "Ok."

"See you later then, friend."

She watched him walk away until she couldn't see him anymore.

*

They actually made pretty good friends.

He started bringing her books and sometimes she'd take a walk out to his cabin. They'd have a beer on the little porch or he'd let her play his guitar.

People started saying things about them. Some curious. Some crass. There was this one kid, Josh… _little shit_.

But Fleur was good at ignoring things. (Like the searing undercurrent of sexual tension that still ran between them. Or the fact that her feelings hadn't abated and were in fact growing stronger the more she got to know him. _Ha._ )

They developed a ritual of meeting at the burger place on Sunday afternoons. Fleur looked forward to it— a lot. It was their thing.

So she was surprised when she walked up on the fourth Sunday and saw someone else sitting at their table with him. A guy about his age. Long black hair, mirrored sunglasses, tight Levi's. Remus laughed at something he said and even though his back was to her, she could tell they were close.

 _Sirius_. It had to be. She'd heard enough about him to know.

She walked near enough so that Sirius looked up. He stopped in the middle of what he was saying and flipped his sunglasses down.

Remus turned around. "Heyyyy, Fleur."

"Hi," she gave an awkward little wave to the table.

"Jesus H. _Christ_ ," Sirius said, his voice a gravelly drawl. He had an energy Fleur was familiar with. There were a lot of guys like him in LA. Usually fronting bands or offering you a line of coke in a bathroom.

"Sirius…" Remus said, his face tense.

Fleur sat down next to Remus and looked at Sirius. "What?" Although she knew what.

"No, no," Sirius played the battered salt and pepper shakers in the middle of the table. "It's just, Remus told me the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen was working at the camp this summer and I didn't believe him." He looked up with a shit-eating grin. "My bad."

Remus rolled his eyes and stood up. "Ignore him," he said to Fleur. "Do you want your usual?"

She nodded and he turned to walk to the order window.

"Hey, what about me?" Sirius said.

"Get your own fucking burger." Remus flipped him off over his shoulder.

Fleur laughed and Sirius joined in.

*

Two weeks somehow passed really quickly and suddenly it was stupid fucking camp dance night. Who had a _dance_ at a summer camp? Fleur couldn't think of anything she'd rather do less, but Percy had snittily informed her that it was mandatory.

Fuck him, 'mandatory'. It was the last night before camp ended. What was he going to do, fire her?

But here she was in her one dress— getting ready with the other counselors in the hot, crowded girls' cabin that smelled slightly of singed hair.

She needed _something_ to distract her. Something to take her mind off the fact that she and Oliver would be getting in the car tomorrow and making the long drive back to California. And that soon after that she'd make the long flight to Paris.

_That she'd probably never see him again._

"God that dress is fucking adorable. Want me to do your hair?" The blonde counselor— _Daphne—_ one of the ones Fleur sort of liked, had appeared in front of her holding a curling iron.

"Yeah ok," Fleur sat on the bed numbly and Daphne settled behind her.

"I cannot believe this is not dyed." Daphne muttered as she applied the hot metal and twisted Fleur's hair into some kind of side-oriented style.

"Makeup?" Pansy, another one of the ok ones, stooped in front of her face, her dark hair swinging around her expertly made-up eyes.

"I never wear it," Fleur said.

Pansy scrutinized her features. "No," she shook her head decisively. "You're right." She swirled away, calling for Millie, and Fleur sank back into her own thoughts.

Of course she'd been a total coward and hadn't said goodbye. Hadn't shown up on Sunday. Skipped their last class. When she'd told Millie she had a headache, Millie had just smiled sadly and told her not to worry about it.

She really did wish she were more brave. _What about self-preservation?_ her brain whispered. But she couldn't quite remember why it was so important now.

Suddenly there was a little flourish in the cabin and Fleur looked up. Millie stood in the middle of the room looking absolutely stunning, her dark hair shining, her smile beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time. All of the girls were fussing over her and for once she seemed to bask in the attention. Fleur caught her eye and mouthed, "Gorgeous." Millie nodded her thanks and Fleur hoped Oliver hadn't been as big of an idiot as she had.

And then all of a sudden everyone was leaving. A gust of excited chatter and perfume. Fleur supposed she should get up. Put on her shoes. She only had her Keds, but whatever, they would be fine. She was looking down to find them when she heard Millie.

"Oh! Fleur!" Millie was rummaging in the bag on her bed. "I almost forgot!"

Fleur looked her question.

"Lupin gave this to me for you." Millie walked over, her hand out, a large white envelope in it.

Fleur took it carefully, and stared down at it. It was blank, except for a large F, underlined twice. "Thanks." She felt a rushing in her ears.

"Millicent come the fuck on! This is your night!" Pansy called from the door. Millie looked over her shoulder and then back at Fleur.

"Go!" Fleur gestured. "I'll be along in a bit. You look beautiful. Tell Oliver I said he's lucky."

Millie flushed and squeezed her hand before darting for the door.

Fleur listened to the sounds of the girls recede as she turned the envelope over in her hands. Finally she took a deep breath and opened it. There was only one page inside. She withdrew it slowly, hand shaking, and turned it over.

It was a sketch. Of her. Sitting in the circle of lamplight in the cabin that day of the storm. The line of her cheek and jaw, the sweep of her damp hair. The beer bottle clasped loosely in her hand. A small smile on her lips. It was dark and light and intense and diffuse all at the same time. Her breath caught—at the bottom of the page there was one word, a title:

" _ **Longing"**_

Fleur jumped up, ran for the door and out into the night.

*

She ran away from the bright lodge building, the blaring music, the loud laughter, and into the woods, under the deep cover of the trees where it was more than a little dark. Her breath came fast and her blood surged.

It all seemed so simple now.

Coming out into the clearing she could see the cabin, windows lit up warm. She didn't pause but ran straight toward it, then lightly up the steps.

She reached for the handle and opened the door, which she now knew was never locked.

"Remus!?" Her voice echoed flatly in the empty space.

He wasn't home. _Fuck_. He must be at Sirius's for the night.

She was too late.

All of the excited anticipation drained from her and she turned, feeling like crying, and walked back through the door. Slumping on the top step, she put her head in her hand. She'd thought she was being so smart. _Fuck._

Misery closed in.

Then from the edge of her awareness, a sound. A step from the side of the house. She looked up just as he came around the corner. He saw her and stopped, almost comically.

"Fleur?" He started again, walking to the foot of the steps and looking up, tall and beautiful, concern and something tense in his expression. "Aren't you supposed to be at the dance?"

"I—" She held up the hand holding the sketch, just now aware that she'd been clutching it the whole time. She felt frozen.

He watched her for a moment, eyes moving slowly from the sketch to hers. The tension in his face relaxed, then he tilted his head and the corner of his mouth twisted up. "It will have to be you who takes the first step, you know," he said, his voice quiet.

He was barely done speaking before she had rushed down the stairs and thrown herself into his arms. He caught her and his lips met hers with sweetness and urgency. Her fingers tangled into his hair and his hands moved up her back, pulling her so tightly against him that she gasped his name.

"Yes?" He was smiling against her lips.

"I'm sorry I was so stupid," she muttered.

"Shhh." He trailed kisses down her neck to her throat.

Fleur decided to stop wasting time and breath talking. Instead she hitched her legs tighter around his waist and returned her lips to his. He carried her up the stairs and swung them through the screen door as she pushed his shirt up, frantic to finally run her hands over his lovely back. He set her down and his fingers went to the zipper of her dress.

He pulled back to look at her. "Is this ok?" He was breathless and his eyes were so dark.

"Yes, please," she whispered, capturing his mouth.

The dress slid to the floor and he drew back again, but further this time. Really looked at her. A hiss almost of pain escaped him. "My _god_ , Fleur." His eyes met hers. "Can I say it now?"

She smiled, puffed a short laugh. "Yes."

"You are so _fucking_ beautiful."

After that, well, the pretty batik was soft and the wall _satisfyingly_ hard.

*

Fleur drifted back to (an altered, exquisite) reality much later, lying in his arms in the bed, window open to the bright moonlight and eerie hooting of an owl. She stroked her finger lazily across the smooth curve of his shoulder and felt his lips as they moved softly against her hair.

"Remus?"

"Mmm."

"You know I'm leaving tomorrow." She hadn't wanted to think about this, but she also didn't want to hide from things anymore.

"No." He shifted up so his dark eyes were on hers. "I don't think so." Amusement again.

"But camp is closing. Oliver and I are driving back."

"Which will take you, what? A week?"

"Around that."

"And then a week at home before you fly?"

"Yes," she sighed, laying her cheek forlornly against his heart. He slid his finger under her chin and tipped it up.

"I have a better plan." His eyes were gleaming now.

"What?"

"You ditch your cousin. In fact, tell him to take Millie insead," he said, his brows flicking up, "and then change your flight so it leaves from New York." He gave her a quick kiss. "Then you stay here with me."

Happiness bloomed in Fleur's chest. "Really?"

"If you'd like." He smiled and ran his finger up to her jaw. "I'll buy you as many hamburgers as you want. I'll even drive you to the airport."

She laughed. "And what then? Will you visit me in France?"

"Ask me again after you've spent two weeks with me," he said. "But I think that could be arranged."

"It's settled, then," she breathed, smiling against his skin, unafraid.

***


End file.
